Doubt's Flower
by VulkansNodosaurus
Summary: It begins in orbit around a dying world, between an Autarch dissatisfied with his superiors and a Space Marine Captain fearful for them. It will end, as it so often does, in fire. Written June-December 2011.
1. Planting

Kaeliu was burning.

Steiroel regarded the mon-keigh city with passive eyes. The planetary invasion had gone successfully; the Thousand Sons were defiling the soil, as they often did, and unleashing various daemons.

Combating them would be wise in some ways, but Chaos too had its uses. The Farseers had said that the Great Enemy would not be able to use this world; it had been poisoned, and the Warp traces would in the long run only weaken Tzeentch. Simultaneously, a prosperous agri-world would be destroyed, slowing the Imperium's advance and preventing them from launching a potential assault on Ulthwe itself. The mon-keigh had gotten too… rowdy recently. Alaitoc…

All of this, of course, would only happen if the rituals succeeded. Thus, the Blood Ravens battle-barge currently in orbit was quite worrying.

With a final whiff of the polluted smoke, Steiroel walked onto the lander's surface. It would lift off in seconds, and yet there was time to discreetly probe the dying city. Psychic screams erupted into the Warp- not from the civilians, but from the Astartes. The stench of corpses was only slightly tangible on the growing wind. Below, the living metal of the spacecraft. Above, an eye in the heavens.

An eye that would remind Steiroel, always, of the infinite folly of his race.

The Autarch climbed into his personal vessel as it left the failing atmosphere of the agri-world behind.

The ascent took minutes, and the growing storm spreading from Kaeliu was clearly visible even from a low altitude. It was a vivid splotch that pained the eye, though not nearly as much as some other incantations of Chaos. At the same time, a spot of white was visible, faintly growing through the hurricane.

The lander attached to Steiroel's flagship, and he walked onto the deck, bearing towards the point where his pilots were going to dock the Blood Ravens. Jaeris had agreed to meet with them- a convenient courtesy, and one that saved his life.

* * *

><p>Kent Jaeris, Captain of the Blood Ravens, walked onto the xeno vessel with some trepidation and hate. Koan had insisted that this was completely safe, but given that these were the Eldar Jaeris could never feel completely safe.<p>

Besides, that had been Koan.

The leader- at least, Jaeris assumed the one with the fancy helmet leader- seemed to smile under his helmet. "Now, will we discuss the situations here or-"

"Here," Jaeris said abruptly, "unless you have anything classified to tell me."

"The information I will supply is not secret, but quite straightforward. I would simply like to tell you that you need to return to the Aurelia subsector. A civil war is beginning within your Chapter."

That was indeed quite straightforward- and quite unbelievable. Azariah Kyras had the Blood Ravens well in hand!

"What you are suggesting is heresy!"

"No, heresy is what threatens your integrity."

Jaeris nodded, and turned around. "This discussion is complete. Incidentally, how do you know?"

"The Seers. Moreover, we do have contact with our brethren closer to the disaster zone."

"Seers lie."

"Not to… this extent."

Jaeris left without further comment, walking back onto the Battle Barge.

"Captain?"

"Yes, Librarian Jekir?"

"You're not actually going to return, are you?"

Jaeris responded by keeping his blank stare.

"Captain?"

"The seed of doubt, once planted, grows into a powerful tree. I doubt that there is indeed a Chapter war, but we must be prepared for anything. Librarian Koan Jekir, you did not see impending doom, yet you have been wrong before."

"Captain Jaeris…"

"I doubt them. I really do. But this world needs us less than our own. The Warp is clear, and if we will return we should do so now. And we must return. I cannot win this with the knowledge that I might doom my Chapter and fail Kyras."

"The idea has infected your mind, has it not?"

"Yes," Kent admitted, "but I cannot do anything else. Doubt is a powerful contagion, and the ways of the Eldar are such that I doubt them. We will go back."

* * *

><p>The receding whispers of the Astartes were perfectly audible to Autarch Steiroel's ears. The machines and armor of the mon-keigh whirred, and with their leaders the Blood Ravens began disengaging.<p>

Steiroel left. This was not the time for action; getting rid of the Blood Ravens had been even easier than predicted, and it was now time to use the Warhost he led.

Still, there was something. The Librarian- Koan- had been too weak to discern the calamity about to befall his Chapter. Yet Jaeris had made the right choice nevertheless.

"Seers lie."

He had been a Seer himself once. He hadn't been very good at it, though: there was always the fear, not so much of the Warp as of failure. He was not perfect, and those above him were often even less so.

"Seers lie."

But they did. Prediction of the future often hurt the Eldar more than it helped them. The same, of course, was true of the mon-keigh. Overconfidence and pride- they had been the downfall of the Empire.

The Empire that was now contained within the red eye, gazing at Steiroel between the stars. Red shadows seemed to move within it, a signal to any stargazers not to look any closer.

They had failed then. They had failed to realize the weaknesses of their own kind, of the gifts bestowed on them by the Old Ones.

"Seers lie."

Steiroel pushed the thoughts away. Though it was unreliable, foresight was a great gift. Ulthwe was still the most powerful Craftworld, and it was led by Farseers. It was the Farseers that now steered the Autarch, after all.

Yet through all of it, the seed remained.


	2. Growing

Autarch Steiroel stood on the bridge of the Voidline Wheel, eyes impassively gazing at the screens. Not a single one of them showed any deviation from normal: each one flowed naturally from one value to another. The labyrinthine corridors of the Webway flowed by outside.

All was normal. All was calm.

Steiroel's emotions tried to rebel against the conformity, but the Autarch pushed them down with the wisdom of his Path. If everything was peaceful, perhaps this mission would pass without incident and the plans of the Eldar's enemies would be broken.

But- but "seers lie." The Astarte's words still resounded in Steiroel's mind. Doubt plagued everything. Perhaps his short voyage along the Path of the Seer was what had led to this, or perhaps it was simply in his nature to be uncertain.

Still, he could not reveal this uncertainty here. Pilot Oesallira stood nearby, and his four senior Exarchs behind him. Engineers and other Pilots rushed in every direction. This was not the time to sabotage the confidence of his warhost.

There would never be such a time.

"Exiting," Oesallira's voice pronounced, and a small commotion resulted; yet within moments it had ended. Profound joy warred with inner anger in Steiroel's mind- joy at reaching their destination unharassed and anger at the warriors that would certainly die on this world.

Then, the Voidline Wheel and the fleet's other ships exited the Webway, and Steiroel gazed at the surface of Xartassax below.

Their mission had been simple: reach the Exodite world and fortify it, to protect against Slaaneshi cultists. A massive army would invade Xartassax soon, in a few cycles, and the Exodites needed to be prepared.

For now, though, Xartassax was peaceful, a green blotch in the void that let the joy within Steiroel overcome his anger. The time for war would yet come, and the souls of the fallen would be confined in spirit-stones, never again to truly live; yet for now, Xartassax was safe. They would yet fight, and Steiroel felt a bit of anticipation at that; but for now all was well.

Then, again, the thought came to Steiroel's head unbidden.

"Seers lie."

Then again, if no army came to Xartassax,life would be even better.

"Launch the landers," the Autarch proclaimed, and walked towards the bay. He would need to talk with the leaders of this world.

The operations were quite simple, routine even. Steiroel descended with a squad of Dark Reapers, led by the Exarch Tagolles.

The first sign of trouble was the smell of smoke. It was faint within the landing craft, of course, but then again even being able to penetrate its walls indicated a massive conflagration. The true test, though, did not come during the deceleration.

It came when Tagolles opened the doors.

A sonic blast ripped one of the Reapers apart; the others fired outwards. In the confusion, the autarch tried to look outside and understand what was happening. There was no good opening, but the smell and sound were clear enough. Uniting to form a discordant cacophony, they made clear the cultists had already arrived.

The lander was surrounded. A blast of energy caused the back wall to shatter; the splinters killed the human who had fired the shot, but he died with a smile.

"Cover the breach!"

That was Tagolles, but even as Ekallae and Irpatoln turned their cannons around, the sonic weaponry broke another hole in the hull. Steiroel himself turned around and shot the dead Reaper's cannon into the midst of the mob that threatened to overwhelm it; nowhere near as powerful or precise as a Warrior's would be, of course, but enough.

The doors slammed shut once more, and locked with the finest of vacuums. A sonic cannon fell silent from Ekallae's cannon; the other was felled by Tagolles, who had moved to join Steiroel. The noises and screams stopped for a moment, and in that silence Steiroel gathered his thoughts.

He was an Autarch, a Warrior no longer, and he regretted having to end another living being's life- even one as devoted to the Great Enemy as these cultists. But there was no choice. Thr real problem was that-

Was that the seers had lied.

"Retreat!" Steiroel screamed into his communicator, hoping any other surviving members of his warhost would return upwards. He would have no such chance.

As massed fire again concentrated itself on the lander, Steiroel felt resignation. He would die here, and his soul would not half-live an eternity in the spirit stones- it would be devoured.

The resignation disappeared very quickly, though. He would die, perhaps, but he would take as many of the enemy to hell with him as possible.

As fire droned on, Steiroel almost didn't notice the massive shadow falling onto the Chaos cultists. Three more Reapers had already died, and only three others remained to hold their position- as such, it was understandable the autarch was focusing more on the enmy than the lighting. Nevertheless, he did notice the fall of darkness, despite not paying much attention to it.

He most certainly paid attention to the fire that seared away the mon-keigh.

A furred dragon descended onto the stragglers, smashing them with its bulk. The squashed screamed in both agony and ecstasy, filling the air with madness for one last moment before it ended.

"Who are you?" Tagolles asked the Exodite.

"My name," she replied with a strong accent, "is Issetera. I heard fighting, so decided to help you. Who are you?"

"I am Autarch Steiroel. We were sent from Ulthwe to aid your world, but apparently it was us who needed help."

"We need help as well," Issetera said, "but come. There is much to discuss."

Issetera was not a seer- Steiroel felt that. Still, when she heard them struggling, she came to their rescue. The seers, meanwhile, had instead sent so many of them to die on Xartassax without even bothering to check if the army had landed or not.

The autarch had doubted his Craftworld's leadership before. No more.

He knew it was wrong now.


	3. Blossoming

Fulfillment is conclusion. In a conflict, two forces clash; and when one achieves superiority over the other, the battle ends and the lines of a new one are drawn. But that moment, that ephemereal time of domination and triumph- that is when the struggle and pain become worth it.

But some conflicts, Autarch Steiroel knew, would never be worth it.

He stood now in his magificent control room. As his eyes glazed over the tapestries and sculptures that adorned the bridge, he recognized their beauty once more. The Eldar commander had been so focused on war that now, when he finally let his appreciation out, it was magnified thousandfold.

"Autarch? The Council wishes to talk to you."

Steiroel shrugged. "I wonder if they regret their foolishness? We will need to continue the war for Xartassax soon- the landers are already being prepared. Perhaps the Seer Council will bow down and apologize. I wouldn't count on it, but why else would they contact us at such a time?"

The moment was a decisive one. Despite the seers' promises, an unrestrained force of mon-keigh cultists was burning and looting the Exodite world of Xartassax at the very moment. But their forces had already been defeated in several key engagements, and the planet's native defenders had isolated the servants of the Great Enemy in their base camp- for now. The Eldar had to strike quickly. For instance, right after this discussion was finished.

The image of Farseer Sremmeh appeared on the view-screen.

"Autarch," he said without further deliberation, "we were mistaken. An overwhelming opposing force has landed on Xartassax. You can defeat it, but you are needed elsewhere. I repeat, retreat."

Steiroel scowled.

"And leave these innocents to their fate?" he near-screamed, no longer fighting to contain his anger by the wisdom of his Path.

"Yes! Ulthwe itself is in danger. Your casualties in taking Xartassax will be as great as the number of lives you save. I repeat-"

Steiroel smashed the screen.

"We depart. Now." he proclaimed to a stunned bridge.

Further preparations were quick, but the Autarch- was he still an Autarch, really?- ignored them. He walked towards the landers instead, desperately trying to contain his temper with the promise of coming victory.

It worked. The command of a Warhost was his, and he would need to use it well.

He entered the same lander as he had during the first, disastrous descent to Xartassax. Its other occupants consisted of a Dark Reaper Squad; Tagolles, the Exarch, Ekallae and Irpatoln. They had watched, together, the flames that covered Xartassax, the desperate battle to protect the lander, devoid of much strategy, the draconic rescue, the demolition of the first group of mon-keigh, the audience with the Greater Council of Xartassax, the clashes circumscribing the Exodite world, and finally this return to the ships before the final battle.

Now, they were watching the obsidian hull of the Voidline Wheel and the other ships in Steiroel's fleet recede into the distance, fading to the uniform black of the infinite sky.

"Have we taken the Path of the Outcast now?" Tagolles asked.

Steiroel was silent; he still didn't know for certain what he, they, had done. He knew only that it had been necessary.

The lander fell into the burning atmosphere of Xartassax- scalding to a less well-designed craft, to something made by an inferior race. But within Eldar handiwork, Steiroel felt completely secure.

No, he didn't feel secure. He was secure, and logically aware of it; but any feelings were bent toward the upcoming war.

The lander hurtled down, and then it was hurtling no more. The Eldar came to rest on solid ground. Tagolles opened the hatch again, but this time there was no gunfire, no sound of agony and death. Instead, a silver-black grove stood in front of the lander, and as Tagolles exited, a landscape of amazing hues was revealed to Steiroel. He could smell foul incense in the distance, likely from one of the traitors' campsites; but they were there, and he was here, and it was... perfect.

"The Exodites are able," Ekallae commented.

"That they are," Irpatoln replied, "but we must fight to protect their ability."

Craftworlds were full of great things, and so were Eldar ships; but something in the glory of a incomprehensibly large silica-metal sphere spinning around an even greater ball of hydrogen could not be replicated by sentient hands.

The Squad ceased the talk of beauty quickly, though, as they fanned out towards the stench of smoke. It was insidious, something more than mere flames; the taint of the Great Enemy, the unforseeable, was inherent to it, seeping through the system of Xartassax. The Warhost was purging that unstable system, freeing it of its corruption.

It was corruption uninvited by any Eldar hand: the Exodites were pure, purer than the Eldar of the Craftworlds. They had seen, not psychically but with logic, the future dusk of the Eldar Empire and fleed ahead of time. Logic was a massive tool, a blade to pierce madness; this was what had always been taught by the Craftworlds, and Steiroel agreed with it. He had not rebelled against Ulthwe.

Only the seers.

"Enemy approaching."

Tagolles' voice swerved Steiroel's mind back into the present and the forest in which he now found himself. Chiding himself for getting distracted, yet making sure not to sink into self-hatred, the Autarch took his cannon and fired at a rushing mon-keigh. The human fell back, even as the shot pierced two of his companions. Ekallae and Irpatoln finished off the rest of the troupe; Tagolles hadn't even lifted his weapon.

The Dark Reapers moved forth. Steiroel did not follow them. Instead, he snaked back through the forest, meeting Wapemm, an Exodite leader.

"The disaun are coming."

"They will be useful."

As Steiroel said that, a massive disaun's thunderous steps resounded far to the Outcast-Autarch's right. They were musical, in a sense, though the creature likely had no idea what music was.

More shooting was heard ahead.

"We are needed."

They ran. Steiroel's heavy weapon was resisting, but that was beside the point.

"The battle started eariler than I expected. Move your warriors to the left, join them with the disaun. I will go with you: the sounds of battle seem to be echoing from there."

He wanted to join the battle, but wasn't yet sure he was ready. Without readiness, there could be no success; but without confidence, his doom would be assured. Thus, the Eldar emerged into the clearing that housed the mon-keigh's camp, moments after the shooting had started.

The sight immediately clarified the cause. The divergence from plan had been caused by another disaun, its crew killed, being mounted by the cultists. Even now they were trying to brand its neck, while eldar snipers were attempting to slay the crew without harming the beast.

"Banshees, Scorpions, Spears, to me!"

The three levels of Warriors swung in, while Steiroel made a dash for the dreadnought. The reptile turned, its unending neck pivoting towards its future savior.

"Kill the despoilers!" Wapemm yelled, and Steiroel could not deny the sentiment.

Steiroel leaped onto the beast's neck in one movement, his wings correcting any mistake his body could have made. The Banshees and Scorpions crushed the ladder onto the tortured behemoth, simultaneously climbing it to get a fore-spot at the devastation. The cultists fought back, though, and irreplaceable losses were being suffered.

"Fire Dragons!"

A cloud of flame enveloped the back of the beast. It was a soft kind, too weak to kill the Eldar inside their armor or injure the disaun. It was quite hot enough, though, to mutilate the mon-keigh. The branders had long run away, jumping off the disaun's back rather than facing Steiroel. Only one stood uninjured; in pink-black armor, the perverted and twisted Space Marine jeered at Steiroel. He had a foot firmly embedded in the disaun's back.

"Good-bye," he proclaimed in some Gothic dialect or another.

Steiroel answered by shooting him in the stomach. The reaper launcher enclouded the superhuman, but he merely laughed. Taking off his helmet, he revealed a perfect face- an Eldar face.

"One of you xenos left this on the ground, and as I'd lost my own..."

"Fire Dragons," Steiroel responded.

As the crippled Space Marine collapsed, as the firestorm cleared, the Autarch gazed at the battlefield. It did not yet firmly belong to the Eldar- the disaun's disturbance had confused many. But his plans were undamaged, and the Warhost's forces were still positioned perfectly.

"Finish them!" Steiroel screamed, and rode the disaun into the cult's heart.

* * *

><p>On an unforgotten, lightless sphere of bone and iron, at the edge of total ruin, two Farseers gazed at Steiroel's victory.<p>

"He could have been a great help."

The other shrugged. "He will be, Cejeran. He will be."

Fulfillment is conclusion. In a conflict, two forces clash; and when one achieves superiority over the other, the battle ends and the lines of a new one are drawn. But that moment, that ephemereal time of domination and triumph- that is when the struggle and pain become worth it.

And the true worth of any clash is not known until long after it ends.


End file.
